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the newspaper of record and its music journalists

Stretch has thought about it a lot and realised the only thing to compare to the pain of experiencing the above lot, is to staple my nipples to my nads and throw myself off a large desk, belly-flopping into a blissful antidote to the music by numbers rubbish these people write. There are too many bands in the world and they’re not all worth interviewing. Van Morrison, maybe an icon for some, but not for all. Knowingly slagging off U2 is fine, but you would sell your dirty little snot-nosed children to get an interview with tho

Not happy!

se morons. And also, shut up about your kids, nobody fucking cares that you are a music journalist with a child. It’s meaningless. It means nothing to people who read music columns. Your child will fucking hate you anyway, mainly because of your stupid articles.

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

ahhhhh, Stretch is sorry about that, it got out of control…but still your fucking child and you are worried about being cool and a Dad. Here’s some news, you weren’t fucking cool to begin with. Cool people don’t exist, they are just mental constructs made up by the weak. Pah, I’m going to bed!

3 thoughts on “the newspaper of record and its music journalists”

If someone is asked directly “Do you have any kids?,” he is entitled to reply “Yes, I have a boy and a girl,” or “five”, or “twenty-seven” depending on how Catholic he is.

Nobody is permitted, under any circumstances, to say “Not that I know of!” Well, they can say it if they want, but they’re not allowed complain if you respond by hitting them over the back of the head with a chair. Or shovel.

Coming out and declaring you have kids without provocation or being asked is unacceptable and generally points to someone who has self-esteem problems or has no worthwhile opinions to talk about. The best thing to do when someone mentions their children without being asked is to ask whether they have any photos of them. When they proudly show you the photos of their spawn, you say “Ah, I was hoping for pictures of them with a little less clothes, maybe bath time or something” That should end the conversation rather sharpish. Bonus is they won’t speak to you again.

On the subject of the worthlessness of music journalist, a friend of mine was recently watching some TV show on which several aging journos were spouting on about how great Arcade Fire were. He declared to his missus that he thought Arcade Fire were in fact totally overrated and mostly appealed to has-beens deperately looking for some street cred and kids who were too young to know better. His wife arrived home the next day with a t-shirt with the following legend:

bizarroland ahoy. I wrote this beauteous blog on Thursday night locked beyond my ken. The next morning I pick up said paper of record and in it’s flimsy artsy section (good film stuff tho), I happened upon the back page which featured an article about Michelle Rocca’s old fuckbuddy AND that fucking asshole going on about his child again. It made me puke up some of my Crunch Nut Cornflakes into my mouth…Arcade Fire are just early Mercury Rev with plans.